I’m the one you love a little less
Than the one you love the most
I’m the one who when you look at me
You’re thinking of her ghost
I’m the one who when you hear my laugh
You wish it was her tune
And I’m the one that, though I know you don’t
I wish you loved me too
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I don’t think people take into account, not how hard it is to study or to work with depression, or even to function with it. But the effort and energy required to merely exist. To wake up in the morning and say “All I have to do today is breathe and make no attempt to try and stop and if the sun goes down today and I’m still breathing, then I have succeeded”.
Thank you for reading. Find more of my writings on my instagram.
In order of rank, the things in life that make me blissfully happy are dogs, music, and the idea that someday somebody could love me. Not in a parental way and not because they felt biologically obligated but because they saw me and they heard me…and they loved me, simply because they could.
I want someone to fall asleep dreaming of the pout of my lips, the brown of my eyes and the high pitched, often seal-like, squeal of my laugh.
My teenage brain wants someone to single out every quality of mine that I ever thought was detestable and show me that it was all this time, always worth loving.
P.S Thank you for reading! I post of my writing on Instagram here.
graze your face.
heartbeat quickens to your pace.
begin, and movements break;
what is left but your embrace?
close their doors
left in cold remaining space,
And all that’s left is your embrace.
I keep a lot of notebooks. Throughout the years I’ve probably amassed more pieces of paper than I have conversations. Blank empty pages became easier for me to reveal myself to than the expectant faces surrounding me, so as I grew up I ended up with encyclopedias filled with my hopes, dreams and eventually sorrows.
Soft sheets of paper rather than other people my age became my friends. And to them I owe my life. Cause for some reason even if you’ve been writing for so long that your hand begins to ache and the ink in your pen runs dry, I’ve learnt that nothing makes you feel more heard than a blank sheet of paper.
I don’t really expect anything from this. I do not expect, nor do I want, comments, views or thousands of followers. My only interest is to reveal myself once more to this blank sheet of paper – as she does and always has accepted me in a way than no one else could ever compete with.